


Confessions

by Kikithehousemoose



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Also I use he/him/his for everyone so far but at least IM is nonconforming/fluid, But I accidentally fell in love irl with a nameless inconsiquential npc and now i have to marry him, I dont know if Ill ever finish this or what I wanted to do with it, M/M, Original Character(s), Original Player Characters, Original characters/minor npcs, So I wrote a fic about shit where I marry him eventually, Spoiler alert its gay, so theres that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 21:47:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12517272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikithehousemoose/pseuds/Kikithehousemoose
Summary: "It started with some sort of commotion related to confessions."In the Neath, there is no such thing as predictability. Sometimes the best and most interesting relationships can blossom out of the most meaningless encounters. This is one of those stories.





	Confessions

**Author's Note:**

> My friends and I are all super into playing Fallen London (again) and I accidentally fell in love with an NPC I ran into because the text felt cute, so said friends pressured me (I did it willingly) into writing this to get all my gay emotions out. It may seem like it cuts off at weird intervals but that's just because I'm shit at writing a lot and wanted to publish /something/ in case I just lose steam for it.

It started with some sort of commotion related to confessions.

The Irritable Mercenary never paid much mind to who was being attacked, or where he was, or who it was doing the attacking. It took too much mental effort to try and keep track of it all, and as issues became more and more complex, he found it just simply wasn't worth it. He kept notes in his journal about things that interested him, or memories he felt like he had to preserve for one reason or another, but as a whole he just let himself be guided by the chaos of those around him, picking parties with little care or commitment as long as it put payment in his hand or people in his favour. Thus, all he knew was that he was by some large important building, there were confessions of conspicuous origin up for the taking, and a shady looking man nearby was struggling with his armful.

Their eyes met and the Ruthless Henchman (though he certainly didn't seem ruthless now-- he was actually quite kind to those he was robbing) dropped some of his armful into the Irritable Mercenary's hands, offering a sheepish smile. "I can't carry all these" he admitted, "but there's more to be had. Mind lending me a hand?"

The Irritable Mercenary quirked an eyebrow. "I suppose I'm already offering you a hand" he says, jostling his share of confessions "but alright."  
The Henchman smiled deviously. "Good." he said "Come with me."

The Irritable Mercenary had collected various things from various people in various ways before, and had always come out of the encounter either feeling disgusted or not feeling at all. Work was work here in the Neath, and he would take whatever he could get. Working alongside the Henchman felt like something the Constables certainly wouldn't approve of, but it also felt... right. IM wondered if the Henchman always felt so invincible, or if he too was walking away from the experience any more elated than usual. It would be embarrassing for him to say 'no', though, and the Irritable Mercenary did have somewhat of a reputation to uphold (they really needed to level up their Dangerous a bit more), so he didn't ask as the Henchman lead them back to his quarters, both of them full with of all the confessions they could collect.

Surprisingly, the Henchman seemed to live fairly well. It wasn't a large or extravagantly furnished house, but it was more than what IM had come to expect from people in their line of work. What was more interesting is all the sorts of trinkets he had on the walls, things seemingly useless like spoons and arrowheads and long, dried tentacles that stretched the half the length of the wall. Where had he gotten these? Why did he have them? How did he keep it all so organized? The Irritable Mercenary wanted to ask, but the Henchman was busy putting on tea. The Irritable Mercenary sat down on the couch (grimy, but comfortable) and dumped his pile onto the table, starting the long work of sorting through them. He flashed a grateful smile when the Henchman pressed a hot cup of tea to his hand, somehow made just how he liked it, but otherwise they didn't say much.

Though they spent hours upon hours picking through their stash, very few of them were of much use. Most were illegible, and those that weren't were hardly of much value. Idle gossip, if anything, or something that was too vague or miniscule to be worth much thought. The Henchman only grunted a laugh at one, leaning over to show the Irritable Mercenary. His eyes scanned over the tattered page that he thought read " _shouk hands withe a squd man. now i am of gaye fevere. tyme to cut off mines the hand_."  
IM snorted and gave it a laugh, glancing away before he could fully catch the Ruthless Henchman's smile.

The Irritable Mercenary only looked up when he heard a distant bell toll, running his hands over his face and counting the number of dongs. Had he really been up that late? Not unusual for him, but it still hadn't felt like that long. The Ruthless Henchman sighed and tossed away another confession, his pile finally running out. He shifted back through the smaller stack and held one out for IM to take-- one about the Cheery Man, who IM happened to know quite well. He sat up straighter and opened the confession, reading its only contents with clarity: " _I didn't look them in the eye_ ". It was cryptic, but IM knew enough about the workings of thieves to know exactly what he was confessing to. Something in his stomach dropped and he was filled with a brief cloud of dread, stirring in his stomach like a bad cough. Before he could think too much about the implications, the Henchman came back from the kitchen-- IM had hardly noticed him get up. He tapped IM's shoulder and handed him a fresh cup of tea, which the Mercenary took with gratitude. He sipped it softly as the Henchman sat back down, coughing a bit.

"Guess you'll be going soon. Our business is done."  
"Yes. I guess so."  
Neither of them move.   
"I don't have room for you. I have one bed."  
"Alright."  
They still don't move. Irritable Mercenary takes another sip of his tea.  
"...Get out of my house."  
"Okay."   
He goes. He takes the steaming cup with him. He'll have to return it later.

 

.

 

.

 

.

  
The next time they cross paths is Veilgarden, of all places.

At first, the Ruthless Henchman pretends not to notice him. He's on a job, after all, and needs to keep an eye on his target. The Irritable Mercenary lets his eyes linger, but doesn't falter in the poem he's reciting about a hivemind queen and some sexual allusions to prisoner's honey. It's not his best work, but it was a commission anyway, and it was good enough for the person paying him.

He steps outside after another hour or two and a few more drinks in him, warm with alcohol and his most beloved trenchcoat. He's almost surprised to see the Ruthless Henchman standing there, leaning inconspicuously against a shadowed wall corner. IM didn't even notice him until he stepped out menacingly from the shadows-- his Shadowy must be remarkably high. IM frowned.

  
"Do you have a contract on me?"  
  
"I didn't know you wrote poems."  
He blinked. "Oh. Yes, I do. Poems, stories, songs... I always find home in Veilgarden."   
  
"I thought you were a mercenary."  
"Oh. Well, that too, I suppose." he scratched his head. "I'm a writer and a mercenary. Essentially anyone who wants to hire me, as long as the work is good."  
  
"But... poetry."   
  
He swallowed, rocking on his heels. "Well, yes. My name is Keats, after all. You know, like the poet."   
  
"No. I don't. I don't read if I don't have to."  
  
"Oh. Okay. Well.." he stares at the man and goes to walk off.  
The Ruthless Henchman grabs his arm, grunting "I'm Gordon."   
Keats paused, looking back at him expectantly, then just nodded. "Alright. Hello, Gordon."  
  
He was silent before letting the mercenary go ahead, nodding and walking off. The mercenary stared after him in offended confusion before sighing and rolling his eyes, continuing the trek home as he muttered to himself "Farewell, Keats..." He tried to make his voice as gruff as the henchman's with little success. It would have sounded better coming from him.

Keats goes home that night feeling cold and disappointed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, yes, "Keats" looks and acts like Keetz Adventurezone. Because I am Keetz Adventurezone and I project onto a lot of things, including player characters in Fallen London, apparently. Nothing else in this fic will be TAZ related though so you won't have to know about it to read it.


End file.
